


I Could Borrow Your Heart (And I Could Leave You Mine)

by callmejude



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Emotional Sex, Episode AU: s08e03 The Long Night, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fear of Death, Gentle Sex, Healing Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s08e02 A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tenderness, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: Sansa pulls Theon aside before the war starts.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 125





	I Could Borrow Your Heart (And I Could Leave You Mine)

The soup is mostly water and turnips, but it is hot and Theon drinks it quickly. It warms him down to his toes. Afterwards, he holds the empty bowl, waiting as it slowly goes cold in his gloved hands. He looks back up at Sansa, and sees her doing the same, inspecting the bowl somewhat sadly. Surely it’s not any sort of last meal she had ever imagined. There was a time when Theon would have been disappointed by such a meal as well. He looks back at the bowl. It had been full, and warm. That’s more than he can ask for, any longer. But Sansa had certainly deserved far better.

He shakes his head. This will not be her last meal. He won’t allow it.

“Theon.” Sansa’s voice is tight, anxious, and Theon’s head jerks up to look back at her. “May we speak privately a moment?”

When she takes his hand, her touch is careful, deliberate, and Theon lets her lead him inside.

It’s foolish, Theon is sure, but he cannot recall a time he’s ever seen so many people at once as he sees now, crammed behind the gates of WInterfell. Dothraki bloodriders feeding cold, brown hay to their horses, hundreds of figures in wildling pelts milling over the snow. The dragon queen has brought so many people with her. Even at its fullest, Winterfell had never seemed so crowded.

As always, Sansa is unfazed by the change, her hold on Theon firm as she weaves through the throngs of bodies with a single-mindedness Theon has only ever seen in the Starks.

He does not expect Sansa to lead him all the way down the hall inside the keep. They pass several empty rooms before they reach the one that Sansa deems worthy enough. It takes Theon a moment to recognize it as what had once been Sansa’s own chambers, when she was a girl. Theon suspects there is a level of comfort in that. Claimed as King of the North, Jon still prefers the quarters afforded to him as Ned Stark’s bastard. Theon suspects if he had the desire to sleep, he’d choose the room he’d had as a ward.

He had slept in the Lord’s chambers before. He does not wish to do so again. Theon can only assume Sansa feels the same.

Still, it settles oddly in Theon’s chest to be in her childhood chambers, and he takes a shuddering breath to steady himself. He focuses a moment on the roaring flames in the fireplace. Someone has tended to each of the rooms, recently. There are not many empty ones, and the ones that are, no one expects will stay empty for long. The dancing flames calm him slightly, and he manages to look back at Sansa.

“How — how may I serve you, Lady Sansa?”

Sansa’s eyes soften, and she smiles. She’s grown so tall, even now that Theon stands at his full height again, she still has to tilt her chin down to look him in the eye. Which she does, always, without hesitation. Even his own sister glances away from him now, knowing what he is — what he isn’t — but Sansa always holds his gaze.

Without a word, Sansa bows her head, pressing her lips to Theon’s.

Startled, Theon wrenches back. “I — Lady Sansa…”

Sansa doesn’t seem troubled by his reaction. Instead she smiles, calm and warm.

“It’s alright, Theon,” she says, voice gentle. “Please, just Sansa.”

“I — I can’t.” Theon shakes his head.

The smile on Sansa’s face flickers then. “Do you not want me?”

What Theon wants is irrelevant. “It isn’t that. Sansa. I… I can’t. You know that.”

A shadow passes over Sansa’s face. “I know what that monster did to you. I know, but I still brought you here. You can give me what I want more than anyone else. I know you know other ways.”

Heat crawling up the back of Theon’s neck, he falls silent. 

“Though, I understand if you have no want for me,” Sansa says firmly, and Theon looks up before she can finish, shaking his head to cut her off.

“Please don’t think that is why, Lady Sansa.”

“Sansa, Theon, please,” Sansa reminds him. “I want only to be Sansa, tonight. Now, if you’ve no want for me, I understand, but I want you. Do you hear me?”

Struck, Theon only stares back at her. He forgets to answer, and Sansa reaches up to cup his face in her gentle hands.

“We could die tonight, Theon. Most likely we will. And no one… no one has touched me, since him.”

It makes Theon’s blood cold, to hear her say. He must close his eyes. No one has touched him since, either, but no one would. Ramsay had seen to that. Told him many times. But Sansa is beautiful, and whole, and surely she could have anyone she wished.

She wants him.

Heart tripping, Theon juts up onto the balls of his feet and takes her face in his own hands. Even wearing his gloves, it makes him flinch. His hands are gnarled and scarred now. Not like her face, perfect and ivory white. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears as he pulls her down into a kiss.

And gods, he’s hungry for it. Just to touch, to be touched. But her kiss is delicate, and still so innocent. Even after everything. It makes Theon’s heartbeat quicken in his chest, and his hands slide to cup the back of her head, leading her into it.

He moves slowly, gently — so gently, she deserves as much — stepping close to her to feel her warmth. Her hands press gently against Theon’s chest, roving up to settle on his jaw, unshaved for a few days. It’s so tender that Theon’s stomach flips uncomfortably, ruefully. He does not deserve this, deserve her. He should not find pleasure again, not without Ramsay, without his blades. He is not to be handled softly.

The thought is like a shock of ice. Theon panics, tries to wrench away, but Sansa’s hands keep him still, and she lets out a soft breath against his mouth. Regaining himself, Theon surges closer, knees weak against the touch. 

Without pulling away, Sansa steps backward, walking them away from the door. Theon goes easily, heart beating fast enough to shatter in his chest. Sansa shrugs off her fur-lined cloak, letting it pool around her feet, and stepping over it. Her hand slides over Theon’s arm until she wraps her fingers around his palm and gives his glove a gentle tug.

It breaks the spell, and Theon jolts back again. 

“No,” he says hoarsely, pulling his hand to his chest as if he’d been burned, righting the glove back over his hand. Tears sting his eyes and he looks away from her. He could not bear to see his hands naked against her skin. The blood red scars and puckered flesh. “No, please…”

“Theon,” Sansa whispers, reaching back for him. “Please, I know every mark under your garments by now. They’ve been shown to me a thousand times.”

Theon shakes his head, desperate to keep the memories away, but the frankness of her words does not allow for them to stay hidden. The times that Sansa had been forced to watch as Theon had been on her wedding night — as he had so many nights after. The nights Ramsay would call for him from the kennels to sleep naked on the floor beside their marriage bed, left shivering at Sansa’s feet. He is not hiding a secret from her, he knows.

“Sansa —”

“I want to feel what it’s like,” Sansa interrupts. Her voice trembles, just slightly, and Theon falls silent. “To feel skin against mine that — that doesn’t make it crawl.”

Choking, Theon steps back. “That’s not me, my lady. I — I’ll only disgust you, with —”

“It _is_ you,” Sansa insists, grabbing his wrist. “Please, Theon. I — I’m afraid it may only be you, now. I do not think I could stand another’s touch. I know all he’s done to you, already. It doesn’t disgust me. I want you. Please.”

And Theon cannot deny her. Not when she looks at him that way, not when she needs him. Shaking, Theon steps back toward her, and Sansa holds him close. 

“Undress me, Theon,” she murmurs, voice churning something low and forgotten in Theon’s gut. “Please.”

Nodding, Theon fumbles with the fastenings of her dress. He’s thankful she allows him his gloves as he disrobes her, allows him to see only her. The sight as the gown unwraps from her chest, sliding gently away. Her petticoat and woolen shift remain, and Theon hesitates. Something about the moment makes him freeze, stumble. No one has touched her since Ramsay, but no one touched her before, either. He is not worthy, to be this for her.

Sansa does not give him the option. She does not ask Theon to remove her underlayers, and instead does it herself when she notices Theon take pause, pulling apart the laces of her shift and pushing the petticoat down her hips. 

And then, she is naked. Disrobed in a pool of her clothes. Carefully, Sansa steps out of the soft pile of skirts. For a moment, she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Only stands there and allows Theon to take in the sight of her.

Ramsay had never cut her, never wanted to leave lasting marks on his wife. She has no scars on her skin, only ever had bruises long since faded. Theon marvels at the look of her, knowing that she’s carried Ramsay with her just the same, but there is no proof of it on her porcelain skin. It fascinates him, that she can look so unscathed, when he knows all Ramsay has done to her.

Awed, Theon moves to touch her, but Sansa holds up her hand, a gentle denial.

Theon goes still, and Sansa’s hand relaxes, outstretched, and waits for Theon to place his hand in hers. For just a moment, Theon has to bite back a swell of panic, but Sansa is patient, unmoving, until Theon finally allows it, with a shaky breath.

Gently, Sansa removes Theon’s glove, barely sparing his missing fingers a glance before turning to his other hand. Theon is still, letting her unfasten the vambraces over his forearms. She reaches for the laces of his leather breastplate at his shoulder before hesitating. For an instant, Theon thinks she may have remembered the slashed and puckered scars underneath his clothes, thinks she may realize she would rather not like to see them again, but before he can back away from her, her voice cuts through his thoughts, softer than Theon can ever recall her sounding:

“May I undress you? Or would you rather do it yourself?”

Heart hammering in his chest, Theon forgets himself and only nods before realizing. “You — you may, my lady.”

Sansa’s face is open and gentle as she smiles, loosening the fastenings of Theon’s leather armor and letting it clatter to the floor beside her dress.

“Please call me Sansa,” she says, moving diligently to the laces of his doublet and woolen shift. “I won’t ask you again.” 

Nodding silently, Theon lets her strip the rest of his clothes away. He keeps his eyes pinned on her hands as they slide careful and deliberate along every fastening until he stands bare before her. 

Humiliated, Theon curls into himself, but Sansa’s hands are quick to run over his scars, the carved away flesh and missing pieces. It’s an odd sensation, at once tingling and pinching pressure under his skin. Some spark behind his eyes, as if feeling the pain that caused them. As he watches, there are some touches he cannot feel at all, the scar too thick for the nerves underneath. The pads of her fingers are soft, forgiving, and Theon lets himself sink into her hands.

“Theon,” her voice has gone low, as if harboring a secret, “please touch me.”

Breath hitching, Theon does, combing his left hand through her hair, down her shoulders, gentle along the ridge of her collarbone, pausing before stroking over her breast. Standing still before him, Sansa draws in a breath. 

“Theon,” Sansa murmurs. Theon can feel her heart beat like a trapped little bird under his hand. Her eyes are bright on him, blue as ice, and Theon’s heart skips under his ribs.

“Sansa —”

Muscle memory compels him, and Theon pushes onto his toes, pulling her into another kiss. Better, this time. He needs it too much now, to be gentle, holding her close against his own naked body until she sighs against his mouth. At first he thinks it may be that it’s too much — the touch, the closeness. It is too much for him, but then her hands cup his face, leading the kiss. Theon shivers, and she starts backward again, toward her bed.

It flutters in his chest, the ghost of want, and he stumbles. Pulling away, he tries again to breathe. “S — Sansa…”

Urging, Sansa kisses his throat, brushing over the unscathed skin there. Theon feels a smear of tears on her cheek, and shudders, pulling her close. He cannot bear to see her cry, not again, not after everything they’ve made it through. He cups the back of her head with his left hand and kisses her cheek, wet with tears.

Something old and long forgotten lights in the back of Theon’s mind, and they stand holding each other for a moment before Sansa sinks onto her bed, leading Theon with her.

Theon had not thought he’d ever again feel the thrill that courses through him then, the excitement that lights along his skin when Sansa reclines against her furs, looking up at him with such expectation. It had all been lost to him so long, replaced a thousand times by fear and torment, that when Sansa’s fingers tuck softly under his chin, he feels the air leave him in a rush, the same way it had when he was a boy, taking to the godswood with the miller’s wife.

The memory turns sour before he can shake it away — turning to the thought of her screams as she watched her sons murdered by his men. He chokes back a strangled breath, but Sansa has his face in her gentle hands, and whispers, “Theon…”

His name settles him, grounding and solid, and he nods. 

She smiles at him, continuing, “Stay with me, Theon. Please.”

“I — I’m here,” Theon tries, and Sansa pulls him down until their brows touch, laying nestled together in her furs. It’s soothing, and a deep breath flows in and out of him, his eyes sliding shut for a moment. Steadier, he repeats, “I’m here.”

“It’s — it’s alright, if you’re frightened,” Sansa tells him, and Theon startles at the tremble in her voice. “I’m frightened, too.”

It changes something in him, to hear that from her. He’d forgotten, that she could ever be scared. He remembers suddenly, gripping her hand as they stared over the ramparts of Winterfell, at the falling snow waiting to catch them. She was shaking in his grip, trembling from fear and cold, and Theon had felt brave, for the first time in years, when he looked at her and nodded just before they jumped.

“You’re safe with me, Sansa,” he tells her abruptly. He kisses down her throat again, a tendril of heat curling around his heart as he feels her body respond. “I shall keep you safe. I’d never — I’d never hurt you.”

Even without the clouded burn of urgency, Theon’s body remembers, still feels the embers of want. It’s different than it had been, not as frantic, not as compelling, but the pleasure he feels throws him, turns him greedy. Her flesh under his is a balm on a wound, and he groans when she surges against him. She’s so warm that she feels like fire, burning coals under her skin. 

As he kisses her throat, he forgets his shame in touching her, crippled hands over flawless porcelain skin. His own ugliness no longer matters. He runs his palm over the soft, smooth skin of her neck. Letting out a breath, Theon trails his fingers down her throat, over her breasts, and a smile twitches against his lips when he hears her gasp.

That pride, he’d forgotten that too. It stirs him, and he mouths gently along her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse under his tongue. She takes a deep breath through her teeth, and Theon caresses the curve of her chest, just short of ticklish. Sansa squirms into the touch with a quiet moan, and Theon realizes she must never have felt this. Perhaps too young and naive before Ramsay to have ever learned to pleasure herself. To think that she had never known the pleasure of her own flesh, of being desired, of being seduced with care and gentleness. It puts sorrow in his heart. He moves to look at her face, flushed pink, eyes wide, and it undoes him. He can’t quite remember the drive, before. His own need. But her response to his attentions spurns him further. It’s all he wants now, just to please her.

“Sansa…” his voice comes out a hush, barely loud enough to hear over the crackling fire, but she hears him. She nods.

She expects him to enter her, he realizes. Perhaps not in the same way Ramsay had, but it’s all she really knows, that savage claiming. But Theon does not wish to claim her. No, instead, he wants to surrender himself, to lavish her with everything he can. 

She shuts her eyes, squeezing them in anticipation of pain, and Theon releases a breath before leaning down to kiss just behind her ear. Sansa will never again feel that pain. He will make sure of it.

Theon moves down her throat, hand gently cupping one breast as he laps at the other with his tongue, and Sansa’s body jerks underneath him, spine pulling tense before unspooling as he does it again.

He’s engulfed by the taste of her, the smell of frost that clings to her skin. Her breath shivers in the quiet of the room, and Theon feels soft fingers comb through his tangled hair. His heart is pounding so strongly that he feels it throbbing in his ears. 

It’s been so long since he has felt anything like this, a thrill from touch.

He has more control over himself than he did before. Before the Dreadfort. There is no more frantic, maddening urgency, no breathless race. Instead it is as if a slow boil is warming in his stomach, turning him liquid inside out. It allows him to focus fully on the soft gasps of breath coming from Sansa at the soft touch of his tongue, the way her body surges to meet a certain brush of his hand. The rise and fall of her chest in the orange light of the fire, fever-hot and brilliantly alive under his fingers.

Softly, he bows again and presses a kiss just below her ribs, hand fanning out over her navel. 

Sansa sucks in a breath and murmurs, “Theon…”

His name on her lips churns hot in his chest, and takes hold of her hand, squeezing her fingers and pressing her knuckles to the furs. He remembers before, doing this for tavern girls, or little Rickon’s pretty nursemaid. Turning them soft and pliant before entering them for himself. Any brute could take a woman, but it was always a point of pride to Theon that he was a skilled lover, that he never left a bedmate unsatisfied. It was a game, in a way. He remembers enjoying the wait, drawing it out, making them beg and plead for it. Remembers the way it made them pine for him, when he’d leave their beds. 

Though the memory is a little bitter, now, he stays focused. It is harder to wrangle his thoughts these days, but he still knows how this works. Every girl was different, really, but he wants to find what turns Sansa soft, what melts away everything that’s made her feel unsafe. His hands stroke slow and gentle up and down her skin, pausing when they reach a place that makes her squirm. She lets out a desperate keening sound as he lets nails delicately scratch along her ribs, and Theon does it again, revelling in the sound, in the way her eyes go wide.

He bows his head to take a breast into his mouth again, teasing with his tongue as her back bows out just a moment, lifting from the bed. She is such a fragile thing, unlearned in her own body. A mad spark of flame lights along Theon’s spine at the thrill of realizing he can still give this to her, that it was not lost before ever discovered. He does not felt worthy of such a thing, and still doesn’t, but Sansa is worthy to feel it, regardless.

When he pushes her flat against the bed, Sansa lets out a loud breath, hard, as if through clenched teeth, and hands scramble to grip fistfulls of his hair.

“Theon — _Theon_...”

He’s never heard her sound like that; thready and yearning. Proper, innocent Sansa was a lady, a Stark. She would never be so waton in her tone. Theon feels it tug below his navel, and whines against her skin. She must feel it.

“Theon, it — don’t stop, please…”

“Sansa —” Theon lifts his head to look into her eyes. They’re wide and dark as they force to focus on him in the dim light. “Tell me. Tell me what you like. What feels good. I want to… I want to give you what you like.”

He can feel Sansa’s heartbeat under his fingers as he speaks, quick against her ribs. With a shuddering breath, Sansa nods, a smile twitching briefly at the corner of her lips. “I — I like this, here…” She places her hand gently over Theon’s, leading him to grip her breast again before moving to touch Theon’s jaw. “Just — just like you were.”

A soft sort of thrum rolls under Theon’s skin, like heady wine in his blood as she guides his mouth back to her breast. It’s soothing, being given direction, knowing what to do. Her long soft fingers rest against Theon’s nape, toying absently with the curls of hair as he mouths at that tender skin, suckling at her breast.

Briefly, Theon drags his tongue down to her navel and up again, and Sansa’s hand clenches in his hair. He can feel her lungs stutter, struggling to take in enough air with how fast her heart is beating. 

“That — do that again.”

With a soft hum, Theon obeys, revelling in the way her body falls loose from his touch. For a moment, as he lets his teeth drag gently over her breast, he lets himself believe they can stay forever in this bed — that there is nothing waiting for them, in the dark winter air outside.

She whines, and the sound of it shoots through him, turns him wild almost as it would have done when he was young and intact. He feels as if his skin has turned to lightning, half-expecting scorch marks to be left where he kisses along her throat. He can’t ever remember feeling this before, this warm safe vibration in his bones. Maybe once, long ago, but it’s been too long now to recall.

Gently, so gently, he nips her pulse; a playful bite against her skin, and she melts into him with a loud sigh, and her long legs lock around his hips. 

“Theon…”

Cupping Sansa’s cheek with his mangled hand, he leads her to look at him, watching her face. Keeping her eyes on him, his left hand trails down her body, gentle and soft, dragging tender sounds from her throat as he leads down, between her legs. She’s slick at his touch, and when his fingers brush over her, she moans and her eyes fall shut. Teasing, Theon lightens the pressure of his touch, enthralled with the way her body thrusts back to chase his hand with a whine. 

“Yes. More — more, please…”

And gods, he wants to give it to her. Wants to give her everything. But moreso, he wants this to last. Wants the war to never come. Wants them to remain forever hidden behind these walls, tangled together among Sansa’s old furs.

He strokes between her legs, growing firmer and quicker. Circling, but not penetrating. 

“Sansa…”

She looks up at him, eyes bright with unshed tears, and the breath is robbed from Theon’s lungs. “ _Sansa._ ”

She will not last much longer, he realizes, no matter how much he teases her. She is too green to this sort of pleasure, but it no longer matters. He leans forward, hesitating to kiss her mouth, and Sansa grips his hair and tugs to close the remaining distance between them, her kiss inexperienced but passionate, and Theon’s heart stops for a moment, crawling into his throat. She breaks the kiss before he can, crying out as her body starts to lose rhythm, thrusting back hard against his fingers.

“Theon, I — _Theon, oh gods —_ ”

Her legs lock tight, holding him flush against her as she keens, her rocking hips slowing as his touch becomes firm, solid where it needs to be. Leading her, guiding her. Her eyes roll over white a moment before she shuts them again, mouth falling open with a gasp. Theon cannot remember being witness to anything like this before. Surely he had been, but never seeing it so clearly, never able to watch it with his full attention.

“Oh, Sansa…” he whispers, though it’s doubtful she can hear him, “dear Sansa…”

As she collapses limp against the furs, Theon watches her, eyes focused on the heaving of her breast, the way her eyes stare dazedly overhead. One of her hands drops over her heart, feeling how quickly it pounds in her chest. She is not fully back to herself before Theon is on her again, desperate to give her more. They could die tonight, she’d said. And no one had touched her, since their Ramsay.

Her breath shivers as he kisses along the insides of her thighs. Her legs are still trembling, and she jolts when his tongue snakes out to taste the sweat on her thigh.

“Gods —” Sansa sits up, skin blotchy red as she shifts shyly away from Theon’s mouth. “I — what…?”

Her face is pink in the dim light from the window as she pulls her knees toward her chin. Hesitating, Theon stares back at her, entirely still. He doesn’t speak, but as Sansa watches him, her legs relax again, dropping back on either side of Theon. Carefully, Theon creeps closer to her, kneeling down to kiss her jaw. 

“Please, Sansa.”

Chewing on her lip, Sansa looks at him shyly. She doesn’t say anything, at first, and Theon fears that she does not want anything more from him. She has found her pleasure, will not die being touched only by their Ramsay, and there is nothing further that she could want from him. But after a moment, she nods, and licks her lips.

“Is that — do you want that from me?”

It’s a jarring question. Theon cannot remember being asked such a thing. He must have been, once, when he was a different man with a different life, but those moments are hazy, and this one now stands out, sharp and focused. He nods.

Sansa takes a breath, shaky but deep. “Tell me, Theon. Is that what you want from me?”

Swallowing, Theon nods again. It feels strange to speak at all, and even more to express a need, but he manages slowly, “Yes, Sansa. I want — I want this from you.”

She smiles at him, and it feels for a moment as if he’s never seen her smile before. “Go on, then.”

It’s an odd sweep in his stomach, being given permission. He cannot remember if he enjoyed such a thing before Ramsay, or if it is because of him that he enjoys it now. He does not care to think on it long enough to decide, instead only lets the feeling wash over him as he turns his attention back to Sansa’s thighs, kisses trailing inward from her knees until he feels her shudder slightly under his mouth.

“Sansa…”

Chest heaving with struggling breaths, Sansa’s legs fall open. She makes a soft sound, a gasp for air when Theon first tastes her. She is light and delicate on his tongue, warm and inviting. He remembers this, the softness, the taste. Before, it would have driven him mad in seconds, but now, he wants only to take his time. Traces his tongue gently along the folds of her until he finds the silky nub of flesh that makes her whine.

Hands fall into his hair, fingers clenching tight as he drags vague shapes over tender skin. Theon feels nails rake over his scalp as a loud burst of air pushes from Sansa’s lungs. Crawling closer, Theon pushes into her, groaning when her legs spread to make room for him.

The moan rocks through Sansa and she keens, pulling Theon towards her by his curls. 

“ _Theon —_ ”

It is everything, to please her. Theon whines, pushing closer, absorbed in the way she surrounds him, the feel of her. Her legs buck forward, cross behind his head to drag him closer. 

“Theon,” she repeats, voice reedy, “Theon, _Theon,_ that…”

He just wants to hear her say his name, again and again until she has gone hoarse. The sound of it still changes him, lights him up from the inside. And her voice, such a soft, gentle sound but with iron underneath. Commanding, but so sweet. His hands grip at her thighs, ripping her forward in his haste to please her, to hear his name on her lips again. Her body follows after him, pulled tense as his tongue plunges deeper inside her, and her hands fall limp around in his hair, grip gone weak as she struggles to continue holding him to her.

It has been a lifetime since he has felt so powerful. Sansa is made of steel, and he has melted her from the inside out, turned her pliant and mewling, given her things she’s never had before. The thought turns him wild, intoxicates him, and he pulls back to nip gently at the inside of her thigh to feel her squirm, listen to her moans bleed into a whimper.

“Oh, Theon, _please —_ ”

It runs hot down his spine, and without a thought he falls back into her, tongue running soft over her folds again until her hips rise to meet him and she whines again, “ _Theon._ ”

The air around them has gotten so thick that Theon feels as if he’s moving through honey, one hand flying out to skate over her breasts, down her stomach to her navel. He no longer cares which hand it is that touches her, only that he does. She thrashes against the sensation, hips twisting to get closer. He is so focused on giving her everything that he forgets where his body ends and hers begins, tucking his hands underneath her hips to pull her closer, taking her fervently until she cries out, hands pulling firm in his hair again.

He can feel her shivering under his hands and his eyes finally flick to her face. The sight that meets him is stunning. Soft red hair sweat-slick against her face, eyes blown dark. He will not say it aloud, knows how much she hates to hear it, since Ramsay. But she _is_ beautiful. More beautiful than anything Theon thinks he’s ever seen.

He will not say it, but he bows forward to kiss her.

She responds hungrily, grabbing fistfuls of Theon’s hair to hold him steady to her. Shuddering, Theon falls slack into her grip. He would die to please her, he knows. He wants to give her everything he can.

“Please, Theon,” she whispers against his mouth, “I — I need…”

“Yes, Sansa,” Theon answers quickly, pleasure buzzing under his skin like wine. He kisses her cheek before he drops his head back between her legs, hands griping hard in the soft flesh of her thighs, holding her open as he takes her like he has no other purpose. He does not, as it is. All he is is for her, because of her.

“Oh gods — _gods, Theon —!_ ”

He tastes it, when she comes, feels her body seize tight, shuddering hard once, twice, before falling heavy in his arms. Her knees slide limp over his shoulders. He hears her whispering, soft almost-words as her shallow, ragged breathing slows. Theon does not pull away too soon, laving his tongue gently over her until she twists away from him with a soft whine.

“Oh Theon — oh gods, it’s — it’s too much…”

Shivering, he pulls away from her, breathless and panting himself. Delicate hands frame his face and guide him forward until he’s face-to-face with her again, her eyes piercing through him. For a moment, silence engulfs them, peaceful and warm like the wolfskins strewn under Sansa’s back. No words, only the crackle of the fire in the hearth, their breath in the air. Theon releases a shaky gasp and drops onto his elbows, framing her gentle body. 

“Thank you, Theon,” she purrs, drawing him into another kiss. “Gods, thank you.”

Her kiss is so soft, untouched by everything she has lived and suffered. She is still so gentle, so tender. Theon cannot understand how. Her mouth responds against Theon’s as natural as breathing, yielding and leading as if they have done this all their lives. A small, smothered part of Theon wishes that perhaps they had. But it is too late now.

When the kiss breaks, Sansa lets out a soft breath of air against Theon’s lips. “Is there — is there anything I could do for you?”

Theon swallows, shakes his head. “It — it was enough to please you. Sansa.”

It is the truth, giving her everything she wanted has satisfied him in ways he has not felt in years; in centuries, it seems. But more, he cannot bear to ask for what it is he needs now for any sort of release. She is still so young, and he would not find pleasure in asking it of her now. And he is not ready to be touched that way again, not yet. Not by someone who is not Ramsay.

And of course, she seems to understand that, nodding as she gently cups his face, catching her breath. She is breathtaking, this way, more stunning than anything Theon can ever recall. Besotten and exerted, red hair askew, face flushed, dew of sweat sheening on body. He remembers, as a boy, thinking Lord Stark would marry her to him. The memory leaves him melancholy, and he has to grip her wrist in his hand to bring himself back from that sad thought, grounded by the quick beat of her pulse.

“We don’t have much longer, I suppose,” Sansa whispers, tucking a lock of hair behind Theon’s ear. She smiles at him so gently that for a moment Theon forgets the horrors the both of them have seen. She asks, “Will you let me dress you?”

Theon has learned by now how to dress himself despite his hand, he does not need the help, but Sansa’s tender offer turns his stomach to water, and he agrees. He wishes for as much of her as he can manage before he must take to the godswood.

Even after asking it, they stay tangled together in the furs a moment longer, Sansa’s breathing still slowing to an even pace as she looks back at him. The look in her eyes is dazzling, staring up at Theon as if he’s still a prince, or a southern knight from one of Old Nan’s stories. It makes Theon’s chest tight, and he must take a steadying breath before he can blink away from her.

As he does, Sansa seems to regain herself, and moves to sit up, smoothing her hair down behind her ears as she gets to her feet. She holds out her hand to help Theon to stand, and smiling, he takes it.

She is careful as she dresses him, lacing his jerkin as if she’s done it a thousand times before, fastening the latches of his breastplate like a skilled armourer. When she’s finished securing the vambraces to his arms, she runs warm hands over his shoulders.

“There,” she says, though she doesn’t meet his eyes, staring at the faded kraken sliced into the leather on his chest. “Will this be warm enough?”

It almost makes him laugh, but then she looks at him, tears again brimming at the corners of her eyes, and he cannot bear to see her look that way now.

“One moment,” she turns away from him, and Theon watches her move to her vanity, tugging open a drawer and pulling something free. “It may not warm you any further,” she says with a shy little laugh as she ties the white silk kerchief through his vambrace, “but I pray that it will keep you safe.”

“Of course, my —” _I won’t ask you again._ Theon clears his throat. “Sansa.”

A smile flickers on her face, and for a moment it looks as if her cheeks turn the slightest hint of pink before she takes a deep breath and looks down at herself, still naked as her nameday beside him.

“Would you dress me?” she asks tenderly, absently straightening Theon’s right glove. It’s a question, now. An option. Theon had dressed Ramsay, in the Dreadfort, and he had dressed Sansa, then, too. 

She will not force him, but she asks, because it is what she wants. 

Swallowing, he nods. He still wants. He wants to give her everything she desires. He is more direct at dressing her than he had been at removing her garments, gently helping her into her petticoat and drawing the strings on her underclothes. Pressing and tucking her beautiful body back into the regalia of the North, the image of her as a soft, wounded girl disintigrates with her garment applied. Once again, she is a Stark of Winterfell.

He’s tugging at the laces at the back of her bodice to tie it flush against her when he hears himself ask, “May I brush your hair for you?”

There’s a pause before Sansa turns her head to meet Theon’s eyes. She watches him a moment, silent but smiling, before telling him quietly, “I would like that very much.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be as skilled as I — as I’d been once,” Theon admits, ducking his head.

“It’s no matter,” Sansa says, turning her head forward again, “I trust you’ve learned other ways for all of it.”

Her trust in him is jarring, but makes Theon smile. Sansa takes a seat at her vanity. She plucks her horsehair brush from where it sits beside her mirror, and rolls it over in her hands a moment before smiling down at it, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She hands it over to Theon, who takes it gingerly. Something has changed in her suddenly, just a fraction, but Theon is afraid to ruin whatever thought it is that she’s holding on to. He’s silent as he moves to stand beside her, careful of his unpracticed fingers as he runs the brush through Sansa’s hair, smoothing it carefully over her back. 

Sansa had worn her hair in such lovely fashions, as a girl. He can’t quiet remember how she’d worn it when he was received by her and the dragon queen, but what she’d worn moments ago out in the courtyard was simple, a few braids meeting at her nape, something he can do despite his mangled hands. Without a word he sets to work, scooping her hair gently in between his fingers.

He had done this when he was forced to act as her handmaiden. He remembers the dim, cold morning after her wedding night, when she cried as he touched her and he’d wished more than anything that he could save her. But he had done this when they were young in Winterfell together, as well, because she begged and pleaded for his and her brother’s attention more than anyone else in the castle. They had been princes, once, and at a time that was all Sansa had thought of them.

Theon had been callous then, and often pulled her hair to make her regret asking for his attention. But then she would cry or stamp her foot, and Theon would be remorseful enough to braid her hair nicely. The horsemaster’s son had teased him once, told Theon he’d make an excellent wife to young Sansa one day. At the time, Theon had cursed him for his insolence, but now the memory only makes Theon smirk fondly. 

Sansa’s eyes find his in the mirror. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles, “just remembering.”

At that, Sansa grins. It’s such an unguarded, genuine look that Theon is taken aback for a moment, sees the same young girl he was thinking of just moments before.

“Aye, myself as well,” she says. “All the times I would make you and Robb pretend to save me from dragons and thieves.”

That makes him laugh, a soft huff that lights up Sansa’s eyes. As a young child, Sansa had often taken to the broken tower and forced Theon and her brother to save her from whatever villainy she dreamt up. Once or twice in those early days, she would recruit Jon as well into her playing, though he’d fallen from her favour when she learned the meaning of his status.

The memory fades, and for a moment, Theon is quiet, unsure of what to say. He had remembered another time, as well. She does not mention it, reflection still smiling, but Theon knows better than to hope she does not recall those times, all the same. 

Silently, he returns to braiding her hair. He yearns to tell her how deeply he cares for her, but even before, he’d never had confidence in such promises. 

Swallowing, he says instead, “You will live, Sansa, I swear to you. I’ll — I’ll make sure of it.”

“I expect you will,” Sansa tells him calmly, face forward in the mirror. “Though the only way you can make sure of it is to survive yourself as well.”

It startles him, and Theon’s hand stalls in her braid. Sansa turns to face him, pulling her hair behind her shoulder.

“You will not die protecting my brother, Theon. I will not allow it. Do you understand me?”

She seems to see straight through him, and Theon cannot answer her. He stares back, mute, and Sansa frowns.

“It is your plan, I know. I saw it on your face when you offered yourself to stand in the godswood with him. You think it will bring you forgiveness. But forgiveness is already yours, Theon. You must know that by now. I will say it every day until you do. And if we are victorious in this war, then there will be no way for you to serve me if you are dead.”

“Lad — Sansa...”

“Promise me, Theon. You have died so many times. Promise me you won’t do it again. Not tonight.”

It chokes him, and he must look away from her. He’s frightened, suddenly, in a way he had not been in years. He’d longed for death so many years, accepted it, he’d forgotten what it feels like to fear it, to want to survive. Sansa’s fingers are cool on his face, and he looks up to see her watching him, tears unshed in her eyes.

“You are so ready to die for me, for my family Theon, I know that.” When she smiles at him now, Theon feels a sick weight curdle in his stomach. “But please, live for me, instead.”

Heart pounding, Theon chews on his lip. Sansa will not look away from him, even as he shirks under her stare. Finally, he gives her a nod.

“I — I will try. Sansa.”

Smiling, Sansa turns back to the mirror, fanning out her hair again for Theon to continue braiding. “Thank you, Theon.”

Frozen, Theon only stares at her reflection. A wave of fondness crashes through him so intensely that he drops the brush and spins her back to face him, stealing another kiss from her. He will do everything he can to live for her, but promises are fickle things, in war, and Theon cannot bear the idea of dying with his thoughts, any longer.

“I love you, Sansa,” he says in a breathless sort of rush as they break apart, “I always will. No matter what happens tonight, know that I am yours.”

She smiles at him, looking somewhat startled, though Theon is unsure if it’s more the kiss or the confession that surprises her.

“I know,” Sansa tells him with a shocked chuckle, and for an instant Theon recalls another life, a different girl, riding away with a musical laugh. An odd sort of memory, faded to almost nothing now. But then Sansa drags him back to the present with a gentle sigh, touching his face. “And I love you as well, Theon. With all my heart, with all that I am. I’m sure you know by now.”

He doesn’t, would have never thought. She is so stunning and brilliant, a true queen now, more than anyone ever thought she’d be. She had said that she trusted Theon’s touch more than she can imagine trusting anyone’s again, but surely it hadn’t meant that she felt love for him. Pity, perhaps, and knowing that he’s far too cowardly to hurt her. There are a thousand reasons she would trust him with her body, but none of them should have been love. Theon is not meant for love. A coward, a turncloak. He had been loved once, cherished as a pet, but never told the words then. The words were too gentle, and true love from Ramsay meant only to endure pain. It isn’t right, that Theon is loved now that Ramsay is gone, certainly not by Sansa, not this delicately. He does not deserve this kind of love.

“Theon,” Sansa’s voice pulls him out of the dark. “You’re shivering. Are you alright?”

“I —” 

Her eyes are blue as a clear summer sky, a light drawing him back. She’s so soft, such a tender thing. A memory grips him then, not of a knife’s love or of a life forgotten, but of Sansa, barely a girl of nine as she came running to her father with a wounded bird in her hands, sobbing and begging him to fix the poor doomed creature.

Always a better man than the realm deserved, Ned had asked the maester to mend its wing, and Sansa kept the thing in a wooden box lined with an old woolen shift and scraps of silk. It had died of course, despite her efforts, and the poor girl had cried for days.

And still, after everything, that gentle soul of hers remains intact, loving completely, even to her detriment. And she loves Theon. She does. Knowing that he may die tonight, she has given him her heart, still so full and open, even with the wounds left on it.

He has been quiet far too long, trapped in the past, and Sansa’s smile falls. “I’d not meant to upset you, Theon,” she says with a steady breath. “I only wanted you to know. If — no matter what happens, it’s more important than anything, that you know.”

Nodding, Theon swallows, resolving himself. He will live for her, he reminds himself. It is what she wants.

He doesn’t think he can manage to speak, so instead he presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead, breathing her in. He feels stronger than he had a moment ago. She makes him so brave.

“We must go, Sansa,” he says finally. His voice comes out more even than he expects, and his grip is firm when he takes her hand. “The night is almost here.”

They do not part right away, Sansa walking alongside him as he pushes Bran’s wheeled chair toward the godswood. The three of them are silent, listening to the heave and surge of bodies heavy with fear as they prepare for war — for death. As they cross the muddied courtyard to the crypts, Sansa stops, and kneels to press a kiss to Bran’s temple.

“Be safe, little brother,” she tells him softly. Bran gives her a single nod, but says nothing in response. 

Tucking hair behind her ear, Sansa looks back up at Theon. “And you as well, Theon. Remember what I told you.”

Fumbling slightly, Theon nods.

“I — I will.”

Bran’s eyes pierce through him, though Theon does not turn to look at him. It is still hard to meet his gaze. He seems to hear everything, to see everything. Seems know so much more than he should, though Theon does not quite understand how.

When Theon takes hold of Bran’s chair again, he thinks he sees Bran smile at him, but is too afraid to look for sure. Flustered, Theon gathers his straggling ironborn warriors, and pushes Bran through the mud to the godswood in silence.

The remainder of the ironborn are already waiting for him there. When they see Bran, they help Theon move him to the farthest corner by the heart tree, and take position to surround him. It’s strange that these men listen to him, respect him. They all know what he is, what he’s done. They are Yara’s men, not his. But they are still all willing to die with him.

Bran does not say much, though Theon’s men all greet him with a shake of his hand before they ready themselves for the war. 

The fighting starts abruptly, and the night, snow and bodies all move in a flurry before the air itself freezes with the arrival of the Night King. 

Panicked, Theon looks to Bran. Voice quiet, Bran tells him words Theon never had never thought he’d hear from him: 

“Thank you.”

It strengthens him, quells the panic. Sansa’s words ring in the back of his mind. He wants nothing more than to live for her, but he cannot live another moment as a coward, not ever again. If he is to die, then he will die brave. Brave like his sister is. Brave like Lord Stark and Robb had been. Brave like Arya, like Jon and Bran and Sansa. Even little Rickon. If he must die, he will die as a Stark would.

Determination drowns his fear. Sansa’s sweet plea fills his mind like a chant, and Theon lunges with his lance, heart pounding, tears blurring his vision. He wanted nothing more than to live for her.

The force with which the Night King’s lance punches through his skin is searing, blinding pain, and he reels back with a helpless, bloody gasp before falling backward. His back hits the hard earth, punching the breath from his lungs. The world spins, Theon’s vision spotting, and the moment before he collapses into the snow he notices Arya sprinting toward them at full force, silent as a cat.

He can only watch as Arya and the Night King struggle to overtake the other before Arya succeeds, and the monster shatters like glass. The rotting wights fall dead in the woods around them. Air leaves him in a rush of exhausted relief, and he drops back into the snow as he listens to the combined breathing of the survivors. The Stark he saved, and the Stark who saved him. 

For a moment, all is quiet.

“Are you alive?”

It makes Theon laugh, causing a sharp pain where the lance had pierced him. In the moment it had felt as if the spear had gone straight through him, but as he shifts to look down at himself, his plate armor is dented into his body, puncturing his flank. Tacky, warm blood pooling along the inside, but it is not the worst wound he’s survived.

“I am,” he croaks, mistyfied that it may actually be true. It hasn’t been, before. Not for years.

Arya is still checking him over when Jon finds them, haggard and smeared with grime. There is only stunned silence between the four of them and the dead strewn about the godswood. Jon confirms Bran is unharmed before kneeling to see to Theon’s wounds. 

“Is — is it only the two of you?” Jon asks, eyes flicking to his little brother again before looking back at Theon. “Did none of your men survive?”

“Just me,” Theon rasps, hint of hysterical disbelief to his voice. “Death con — continues to evade me, it seems.”

Perhaps just as hysterically, Jon laughs. Arya makes a huffing sound. 

“For now, perhaps,” she mutters, “but if we don’t tend to these, you’ll not see past tomorrow.”

Tomorrow seems like a myth, after everything. Theon stares at her, tries to see the coltish, headstrong child she’d been once. She’s become such a grim thing, more now like Jon than she’s ever was before.

“Are — are you hurt?” Theon asks awkwardly as Arya tears a strap from her tunic to tie around a gash above his elbow.

Without looking she shrugs. “I’m fine.” 

“That thing had you by the throat. I — I saw it.”

“Aye. And then he let go.”

Jon stares at his sister, but she doesn’t meet his gaze. Jon looks pale, but doesn’t ask for an elaboration. For a moment, the four of them are in silence, and then Arya mutters, voice low, almost begrudging, “Thank you, Theon.”

Blinking, Theon manages hoarsely, “What?”

“For protecting Bran. Until I made it here. You — it was just you. As you said. So, thank you. For not leaving him.”

Theon doesn’t look away from Arya. He is waiting, perhaps, for her to look at him. She does not, wiping muddy snow from another cut on Theon’s leg. Instead, Theon can feel Jon’s eyes on him now, as well as Bran’s.

“I would have died before leaving him,” Theon tells her, voice cracking as she presses on a weak spot in his ribs.

“You’re a hero, Theon,” Bran says then, his voice flat and eyes distant as Theon turns to look at him sitting before the heart tree, looking every bit as ancient. “The hero of the North, as you were always meant to be. You no longer owe me anything. In truth, you never have.”

At that, Theon scoffs, a wet sound. He opens his mouth to say something — a joke, if he can manage — but instead another voice joins the air before he can speak. 

“Theon.”

It’s such a soft voice that Jon and Arya do not even hear it, but Theon’s lungs fill suddenly with cold, calming air. With tremendous effort, he turns his head to see Sansa just behind her brother and sister, pale and frightened, but standing steady. It takes a moment for Theon to notice the tears on her face. She takes a deep breath before asking, voice only slightly louder than it had been before, “Are you — are you alright?”

Jon and Arya both turn to see her behind them, and Theon smiles, struggling back to his feet with help of Jon’s steady hand. 

“I’ll live, my lady,” he says, wondering for a moment if she still means to be called by her first name. “As — as I promised.”

Her eyes well with tears, but she smiles, shoulders sagging as she rushes past Jon and Arya still kneeled at her feet to throw her arms around Theon’s shoulders. He stumbles under the sudden weight, but the warmth of her is too welcoming to push away. His hands grip her cloak, holding her close, and before he can fully understand his own relief, he feels her shudder in his arms, weeping against his neck.

Theon holds her through it and makes no mention, letting it fade into his shoulder as she composes herself. When she takes a deep breath to steady herself, Theon allows, “I’m alright, Lady Sansa. It’s — it’s quite a relief to see you safe, as well.”

It makes her laugh as she pulls back from him, wiping her eyes. “Aye,” she says with a watery chuckle, “It’s something we both seem rather good at, despite ourselves, isn’t it? Survi —”

Theon takes her mouth in his, heart racing from his own foolish bravery, but before he can regret himself, she responds with a deep sigh, falling slack into his arms and holding his face. His head swims with the weight of relief finally sinking into his bones. They have survived, the both of them, and now they are safe. After everything, finally, they are safe in Winterfell.

Three sets of eyes burning into them is what finally breaks them apart, Sansa letting out a breathless laugh as Theon looks over to see Jon and Arya staring at them with varying states of confusion. Bran, however, seated in his chair just beside them, is smiling.

When the war council gathers to decide who stays and who marches south, Jon suggests Theon stay behind to recover. As much as Theon wants to argue, Sansa agrees on his behalf and he sees no point in arguing after that. He has no want to leave her again, anyway. They wait with the Northmen for the war in the south to bring home the survivors, taking any chance they can to speak of other things.

“You’re healing well,” Sansa tells him one evening while redressing his wounds. “You should be ready to sail home by the time my brother returns.”

Her tone is low, and Theon thinks he hears hurt under the words.

Swallowing, Theon offers, “I — I believe I am home, Lady Sansa.”

Her smile then lights the dim room brighter than any candle.

They marry in the godswood, surrounded by falling snow. Winter is well and truly here, now. The weirwood still bears leaves, no matter the season, tall and red-crowned in the white wood. Theon is reluctant, but Sansa, strong-willed she-wolf that she is, insists that she will not let Ramsay take her faith from her.

“Nothing of him remains in the North, Theon,” she tells him when he expresses his worries. “I will not let his memory tarnish it as he would want, least of all my home, and nor should you.”

She has always been so strong.

Theon drapes her in a black cloak that she embroidered with a golden kraken herself, but he knows better than to think she will take his name. She is Sansa Stark, forever. If they are to care for any orphaned children, there may be a kraken included in their coat of arms, but they will be Starks, and prepare to be lords and ladies of Winterfell — kings and queens of the North.

Theon would like that, he thinks. The idea makes him smile. Sansa smiles too, as if knowing what he is thinking before she takes his mouth in the first kiss as his bride.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Mineshaft II" by Dessa


End file.
